Strih

her hair is gold. this year, she wears it short. she keeps her coat on when she’s holding court, patting all its pockets; each one holds the dreaming of a day. she smiles when she speaks, and always has so much to say. when she’s unsure, she strokes her neck with four long slender fingers, and when she leaves the room a scent of elderflower lingers. she gave up vanity long ago, when aspirations demanded. the cats who keep her company can tell you: when cornered is when she’s least candid. she is strident and, it’s said, prefers those who are shielded. from sacrifice she learned her seething fire; it’s a weapon she’s long wielded. she’s well versed in_cantation, and knows each one deserves allit[tl]eration. her tears are a gift. she’s known to change her name when borders shift. she is, sometimes, sad. she can be hard. few are those men lucky enough to carry home her calling card.